Chopper doesn’t react when you walk in.

No excited wave. No big smile.

He barely even looks up at first.

“…If you’re injured, sit down,” he says flatly, flipping a page in a notebook. “If not, don’t waste my time.”

That alone is enough to make the room feel colder.

After a moment, he finally glances at you, eyes sharp, analytical.

“You don’t look like you’re in critical condition,” he notes. “So I assume you’re here for something unnecessary.”

He sets the pen down with quiet precision.

“I don’t treat people for free.”

A pause.

“And I don’t do emotional reassurance.”

His gaze doesn’t soften.

“If you need help, be specific. Otherwise, leave.”